2 of 9One of six lightweight Ruf CTRs, this was apparently the only one constructed for the US

Photo by eBay

3 of 9Though the Z06 is no longer the top-of-the-heap 'Vette, it's still an utterly gonzo automobile

Photo by Davey G. Johnson

4 of 9For a brief period in 1987, the Ferrari F40 was the fastest production car in the world

Photo by Darin Schnabel/Courtesy RM Auctions

5 of 9The CTR Yellowbird knocked the Ferrari from its top-speed pedestal

Photo by eBay

6 of 9The Z06 won't quite top 200mph, but in its own way harkens back to the factory and tuner specials that fought for the speed crown in the halcyon days of the 1980s.

Photo by Davey G. Johnson

7 of 9The F40 evolved from the 288 GTO Evoluzione, a barely-recognizable descendant of the venerable 308

Photo by Darin Schnabel/Courtesy RM Auctions

8 of 9Unlike the Porsche 930, the Ruf CTR used the slimmer Carrera bodyshell for maximum aerodynamics

Photo by eBay

9 of 9The Z06 is a widebody Corvette with an aggressively-lightened structure. Despite the stonking mill, it weighs in at just over a ton and a half — a veritable featherweight these days.

Photo by Davey G. Johnson

The other night, my friend and fellow autojournalist Sam Smith posted a link on Facebook to a photo of the late Paul Frère and Phil Hill from one of Road & Track's phenomenal supercar roundups of the 1980s. The photo featured a Ferrari Testarossa, a Audi Sport Quattro and other hyperrare European machines, both tuner cars and factory specials. Smith's caption? “Remember this? Yeah, me too.”

I was 11 when that issue came out in 1987. My dad purchased it for me at the airport on one of our trips to visit family in the United Kingdom and Ireland. I remember trying to figure out how to pronounce “quattrovalvole” in my uncle's Ealing living room while debating the cars with my cousins. I settled on something that sounded roughly like “quattrovalveoil.” I still have to catch myself to avoid looking like a rube in front of Ferrari and Lambo owners. When speaking, I generally abbreviate it to “QV” or translate it to “four-valve.”

The late 1980s were a heady time for young supercar aficionados. The mid-1970s designs had begun to give way to a new generation of advanced machines, but the NSX had yet to come along and turn the entire category on its head by demonstrating that dramatic performance and everyday livability didn't have to be mutually exclusive.

I don't live in the wealthiest area, but these days, I'm not particularly surprised when I run across a Modena or a Murciélago at my local Starbucks. Despite government cutbacks and the collapse of the housing market in a town which basically runs on government funds and real-estate development dollars, the people with real money in Sacramento still have it.

But in 1987? Spotting a Testarossa was like winning the lottery. The only Countach that I saw in person while the car was in production was in an automotive display at the local Strategic Air Command base's annual air show. Raw, uncivilized and beastly, the supercars of the day were insane and as rare as rare gets.

Arguably the king of the era, the Ferrari F40 could top 200 mph. It did this by using every hot-rodder's trick in the book: a tube chassis. Lightweight Kevlar body panels misted with paint so thin one could glean the texture of the weave. Two honking Japanese turbos huffing gobs of boost into a 2.9-liter, low-compression version of a 308 motor. Lexan windows. No interior to speak of. The result was a 2,425-pound car capable of 201 mph. Unleashed on Europe in 1987, the car didn't arrive on American shores until 1990. In 1991, during the tail end of his tenure at Chrysler, Lee Iacocca bought one.

Perhaps coincidentally, 1991 was the last year of Chrysler TC by Maserati construction and just three years before Chrysler divested itself of Lamborghini, fobbing it off on a group of Indonesians before Audi rescued Ferruccio's house with a plan to put a Gallardo in every elegantly paved driveway and a chicken in every pot. It was also 18 years before Ferrari parent Fiat began orchestrating Chrysler's latest turnaround. Lido and the car's three successive owners have collectively put about 300 miles on the clock of this particular ripping, snorting equine, which crosses the block at RM Auctions' Arizona event on Friday. I doubt successive owners will add too many more. Given the low miles and provenance, it's simply too valuable as a collector piece.

An F40 that presumably saw more hard miles than Iacocca's had just set a 201-mph production-car record when Frère, Hill and company assembled their coterie of machines at Volkswagen's Ehra-Lessien test track in Germany. Far and away the fastest--at 211 mph--was a somewhat unassuming Porsche 911. It was a mildly streamlined narrow-body car with shaved rain gutters and NACA ducts carved into the tops of the fenders, à la the wonking 935 racers. It had one other important detail--the Porsche crest on the hood had been replaced by a Ruf emblem. Alois Ruf had named his creation the “CTR,” but that test gave it the name by which it's known to enthusiasts, the Yellowbird.

Like the F40, the CTR relied on lightness, race-car engineering and two whacking turbochargers to go fast. A fellow I met who has driven the Yellowbird noted that the engine idled so rich that he had to hold his breath at stoplights to avoid getting woozy. He also said it was the best 911 he'd ever driven. There's a lightweight '89 CTR on eBay right now, in Florida. Resplendent in yellow, like the original, it's apparently one of six built with intensive aluminum construction and the only one of the six imported to the United States.

For those who want to avoid the hubbub and annoyance of bidding along with the other moneyed, unwashed in public--and want a car they could drive without punching a hole in the vehicle's resale value--the Ruf makes all kinds of sense. Unless, of course, you live in California, where the thing won't pass smog.

The impending sale of these two icons of my youth got me considering the machine that currently sits in my driveway, a 2012 Centennial Edition Chevrolet Corvette Z06. Jeremy Clarkson famously proclaimed that he'd rather live with bird flu than the track-tuned ‘Vette, and after a few days, I can understand his hyperbolic assertion.

The car makes no sense at less than 80 mph. It tramlines like a cable car. It requires one's full attention at practically every moment behind the wheel. Wheelspin is available whenever you want it, and often when you don't--even with the traction control on.

Regular press-fleet maintenance can't keep up with the wear rate of the Michelin Pilot Sport Cup tires. What little tread the meats began life with is practically gone on this 4,000-mile tester, and they don't feel particularly cooperative in cold weather. The driver's door emits a clunking noise from the hinge. The panel gaps don't line up. The body's festooned with odd plastic bits. The aero package is a nonmetallic gloss black, while the rest of the body is sprayed in a metal-flake hue that General Motors calls Carbon Flash Metallic. The overall effect is one of expediency and cost-cutting. Both accidentally and on purpose, it also reeks of whatever-works-because-race car engineering.

If it's not quite as ludicrous as the F40 or the CTR. It's only because 25 years of automotive technology have made it possible to nudge 200 mph and use the cool end of a high-strung machine's HVAC system in summertime traffic.

My first day driving the $101,760 Z06 Centennial (base models start at $75,600), all I could think of was that my hundred large would be better spent on a lightly optioned 991 Carrera S, or if I felt like roughing it, a fairly loaded Cayman R. But neither the new 911 or the lightweight Cayman feel like they want to kill you. They're not adversarial. The Z06 is a machine to be tamed, to be learned, to be both beaten and finessed. It's a widowmaker in a tradition that Porsche once owned with the original 911 Turbo. It's a throwback to those ‘80s supercars. The Z06 demands to be driven and offers no quarter for those who are dumb enough not to take heed. It will also happily lope along at the speed limit in traffic. The clutch is heavy yet supremely progressive, and the rifle-bolt shifter smacks into the gates with a satisfying thunk. The natural impulse would be to take it to Laguna Seca. I didn't take it to Laguna Seca. Instead, I drove it to the local convenience store for a late-night snack.

The group of Central Valley kids barreled into the 7-11 in a cacophonous announcement of midnight arrival. The youngest couldn't have been more than 19, the oldest, perhaps 22. Their attention turned to me. “Yo! That your ‘Vette?”

“Well, for this week, anyway.”

“V10?” the one with dreadlocks asked.

“V8. 427. The 7.0-liter.”

“Oh, damn! That's right! Three-oh-two! Three-oh-two!”

I didn't bother inquiring as to what beyond-and-back thought process had him equating the Ford Windsor with the Chevy small block. Or for that matter, a ‘Vette with a Viper. These kids didn't care so much what it was, only that it looked evil and was clearly capable of lunatic burnouts. They babbled in a language I caught every third word of, my grasp of hip-hop vernacular sadly stuck somewhere around 1995. I felt old. Not old enough for a denim letterman jacket with crossed flags on the back, but old nonetheless.

I could glean enough to tell that they wanted me to leave the parking lot in some spectacular manner, perhaps sideways, on fire, into oncoming traffic, firing a MAC-10 into the air while yodeling “Riii-co-laaaaa!” I suggested to them that the car was such a beast that I'd wind up looping it into a light post if I got on the throttle. My protests fell on deaf ears. I think the kid with dreadlocks may still have been yelling “three-oh-two!” Clearly, they cared not for the reality of balding R-compound tires and 470 lb-ft of torque on frigid asphalt.

Taking my leave, I carefully maneuvered the Corvette out of the parking lot to avoid scraping the front splitter. I considered continuing my departure calmly and responsibly. Then I thought of their disappointment. And the car's mission. I rolled into the throttle at 5 mph and lit up the rear tires all the way up to 35, a feat which took a good half a block. I was well out of their line of sight by the time I shifted into third and calmly trundled home. My little idiot show had nothing on Paul Frère and Phil Hill at Ehra-Lessien, but it was a gesture nonetheless.

And what are these ludicrous machines but gestures hewn from exotic materials? What else are they but a siren's call to the youth? The Iacocca F40 may never see another mile, but I hope whoever buys that Yellowbird takes it out and drives it.